


Coin of The Regent Lord

by gyunikum



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied Mental Disability, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, Physical Disability, Slow-ish burn, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth, kicks off right after 8.2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-19 22:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20664764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyunikum/pseuds/gyunikum
Summary: Lor'themar Theron had never had the chance to toss a coin in Dalaran's infamous wishing fountain. Why? Because when he finally makes it to Dalaran, it's because someone tries to assassinate him, and the botched attempt leaves him with his legs disabled, and a half-wit human as his only possible ally in the city under lockdown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be the most self-indulgent story I have ever had the joy of conceiving, and also my entry to the tons of other OC/lore-important-character fics. Honestly, before BfA I never had any interest in Lor'themar. He was just so... plain and one-layered, except for MoP, but I didn't play MoP, so... Then boom comes his updated model and oh boy... but up till now, I never gave in to the urges of writing a fic with him and an OC. I didn't have a proper OC for Light's sake! And so I took my time researching and reading all about Lor'themar, even going as far as making a trial on scribd to read Blood of the Highborne (never have I been bested by the internet before...) but tbh I've read tons of way better fics on AO3 than those official wow novels and short-stories so it was kind of a struggle to get through.
> 
> Anyhow, here it is! Enjoy.

After Nazjatar, Lor’themar had barely any time to return to Silvermoon – despite Thalyssra’s portal to Zuldazar working fine, he was one of the last of the Horde’s troops to leave that sodden land through a personalised portal right into the belly of Sunfury Spire – and address the leaders of what had transpired in Queen Azshara’s domain. He had half-expected Halduron to start the conversation by saying it’s all better down where it’s wetter, but after Lor’themar finished recounting the short version, the Ranger-general looked downright terrified as he stood by the bookcases.

Next to him Lady Liadrin crossed her arms defensively, and shook her head. Then she asked: “A megalomaniacal octopus?”

By the window, Grand Magister Rommath merely raised two eyebrows to show his apparent surprise.

“Another Old God?” he had asked in the end, but gotten no reply as something shifted in the room.

A glint caught Lor’themar’s eye, and a blade clattered on the floor just as suddenly, Halduron’s quick reflexes saving Lor’themar’s life. Rommath was the next one to react as he smashed his staff against the floor, his spell revealing two assassins.

They drew their wicked blades no doubt aimed for Lor’themar’s traitorous heart, but as soon as they came, the slower of them crumbled to the floor with one of Lor’themar’s ornamental, decorative knives embedded in her neck, Halduron’s arm thrown in her way. For a moment that Lor’themar could spare to be distracted for, he found himself envious of Halduron’s quickness. Then something exploded in Lor’themar’s office.

In the momentary distraction, the other assassin had ample time to smash a smoke bomb on the floor, and all Lor’themar could see through the sudden grey haze and his quickly welling tears were colourful flashes from Rommath’s subdued spells – had he not restrained himself, the entire spire would have crumbled on top of them.

Someone then grabbed Lor’themar’s collar, forcing his long-nascent Farstrider training to jumpstart into a wide right hook, but Halduron was much faster and got hold of Lor’themar’s lethal fist before it could connect with his prized face.

“Come!” he mouthed soundlessly, lest they give away their location, urging Lor’themar to get moving. It all happened within mere seconds as Liadrin’s light penetrated the smoke for them to breathe and see. In the balcony’s direction, the beginning of Rommath’s portal shimmered into existence. Another light nova pulsed through the room, sweeping aside papers, curtains, and wisps of smoke.

However, as did it offer sight to the sin’dorei, so did the elusive rogue gain a clear view at Lor’themar’s retreating back as he was pushed through the portal by Halduron.

The poisoned needle followed him through the rapidly receding portal, puncturing his salty clothes right in the small of his back. His left leg went numb immediately, and Lor’themar tripped in a string of sudden agony that shot up his spine.

In his last moment of consciousness, he wondered which was the one that worked faster: Slyvanas or the poison.

He fell. And fell.

His hair still reeked of fish and gilblins – they were cute and useful, but they smelled horrendous to Lor’themar’s sensitive nose – when he woke up with a start. It was his body twitching him into awareness before he gained enough consciousness to register the outside world. Blinding light forced his eye shut as soon as it popped open, flashing bright red through his eyelid, as though losing the other one hadn’t been enough of a punishment.

The Regent Lord of Silvermoon groaned loudly to voice his discomfort, something that, in a deep recess of his mind now somehow prominent, remembered he hadn’t heard since his Farstrider days. How long had those been—and how Lor’themar longed for them right now.

At least he was not dead. Or so he hoped.

The next time he came to, he was more aware of his immediate surroundings. After struggling to keep his eyelid open, he quickly looked around to assess his situation: he was in a room with empty beds lining the walls, no doubt an infirmary of sorts. Then, a strange snort caught his attention, making Lor’themar look for the source with a bleary eye as he tried to get his bearings.

There was a person sprawled on a chair on the far end of his bed, and though he could not see their face, the clothes worn by them revealed the clear features of a female. Perhaps a nurse was there to keep an eye on him, though her clothing choice of leather tunic and breeches begged to differ.

In any case, Lor’themar had more pressing matters to worry about—namely, the fact that instead of standing up from the bed, his treacherous legs just simply flopped past the edge of the mattress, and pulled Lor’themar’s entire body with them to the hard floor with a loud thud. He let out a strangled cry, and then the sleeping woman was not so sleeping anymore.

They both stared at one another in mortification, Lor’themar because he could not feel his legs, and the _human _woman because—whatever caused her to look at Lor’themar like that. In a bout of utter panic that bubbled in his throat, Lor’themar flinched backwards as the woman crouched down to reach for him. His head swam.

What happened to his legs? They weren’t just numb—they were—as if they weren’t even there. Just a dead weight below the feeling of his waist. His legs touched each other as they lay lamely on the floor, yet Lor’themar _could not_ feel the sensation he was supposed to have. His eyes told him he should feel his own skin, the pressure, the warmth, yet there was nothing.

His face flushed hot as he tried to move his legs, but all he accomplished was a muffled, undignified sound that slipped past his gritted teeth. In a fit of anger that flared quick in his heart, he slapped away the helping hand that tried to reach for him once again. Lor’themar did not offer any apologies for his lashing out—the woman didn’t appear hurt as her hand hovered just before her chest in a gesture of uncertainty.

No. She looked pitifully at him.

“Do _not_ touch me,” Lor’themar hissed. A small part of him knew that he should not act like this in wake of the events in Nazjatar, but he could just not bring himself to care for the opinion of _one_ human. She didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Sylvanas had tried to assassinate him this soon. It was a botched attempt, if anything, which begged the question—did Sylvanas rush it? Had she been planning on taking him out, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike? In that case, things must have moved too quickly suddenly for her liking, and this must have been her mistake. Theories.

Or was this all part of her plan? To—incapacitate him? After all, killing him would have been too obvious, even if she claimed that his demise had reached him in Nazjatar against Azshara. No, there would have been too many witnesses. More theories.

That sly bitch.

“Lord Theron!” came a surprised yelp, with a clear accent that reminded him of the Huojin pandaren. His time in Pandaria saw to it that he would recognize the accent anywhere. “You shouldn’t leave bed yet!”

Lor’themar shook his head to clear his mind, and looked up from between the two beds to see a pandaren nurse hurry towards him. The previous woman was gone, perhaps had left to fetch someone more capable of—of what? Taking care of him? Lor’themar could almost scowl. He did not need anyone to take care of him. The pandaren nurse placed a wooden tray with a pitcher and a glass on the bed next to him, and glanced at him with great concern.

“What happened?” Lor’themar asked, trying to look as dignified as he could while sitting on the floor with his legs unceremoniously flopped to one side against each other in clear indication of his ailment. Before the pandaren could open her muzzle, he quickly added. “And tell me _everything_.”

“Let us help you back to bed first, Lord Theron,” the pandaren said in a pleading voice, and sent a quick glance past her shoulder. Lor’themar followed it with his own eye, settling on the previous woman who was now standing by the door awkwardly. Upon the pandaren’s indication, she pushed herself off the wall and strode over wordlessly.

The silent woman must have been a warrior or a heavy labourer, for her strength would have surprised Lor’themar more had he been capable of sparing some of his mind to wonder at the fact. She handled him with ease and great care—first, they moved the other bed out of the way so she had enough space to step next to him, then she slipped her arms under his armpits, bowing her head in a silent apology. She heaved him up without breaking a sweat, and placed him on the bed as gingerly as she could. He didn’t let her arrange his legs for him, instead, Lor’themar did it himself quickly before she could. The motions were alien to him, and he did not ever want to repeat them.

He turned to the pandaren who had fluffed up a pillow meanwhile and set it standing against the headboard so Lor’themar could sit upright more comfortably. As comfortable as the thought that he was forced into bed allowed him to get. Which wasn’t very comfortable, to tell the truth.

“Now,” he ordered in the most diplomatic manner he could muster. “Where am I?”

“In Dalaran,” the pandaren answered obediently. “In _First to Your Aid_. Two days ago you appeared out of thin air—literally. Mace happened to be in the vicinity, and if not for her, you would have broken many bones in the fall.”

That was disconcerting. Rommath had botched up a simple portal? Something must have happened.

“_Mace_?” Lor’themar echoed, confused for a moment that despite all the information he’d just been given, this was his first question. He would need some time alone to properly comprehend the events and its many indications.

In reply, the pandaren nurse gestured to the silent woman standing at the feet of his bed, bowing her head adamantly. Her hair covered most of her face, and all Lor’themar could see was the crooked line of her nose. Her exposed upper arms were covered with many bruises of purple, green and yellow.

He would have to thank her for saving him. But not now, not yet.

“I see,” Lor’themar nodded, chewing on his next question. He did not want to let the pandaren know what he’d been doing – it was none of her business – but he needed answers. “And—my legs? What is wrong with them?”

He heard the pandaren sigh. “We—are not quite certain yet. At first, we thought you had broken your spine—despite Mace’s intervention, you both suffered some injuries, but after you’ve been taken here, we conducted a physical examination on you, and found a puncture wound on your waist. We took some samples from the needle that we found in the park where you had appeared. We’ve involved the Kirin Tor, and Mr. Valdera, our resident alchemist, to learn more about the substance.”

Lor’themar waited with bated breath. This did not yet answer his question, he wanted to snap at the nurse, but he refrained from doing so. He’d let himself act like a fool already, and he was not about to repeat it. _Be cool-headed, Theron,_ he chanted, _this is really not the time to make enemies left and right._

“You were in great pain, but no matter what our healers did, it would not subside. We decided it would be best to place you in a restful sleep, but yesterday you woke up, screaming that your legs were gone...”

“I have no recollection of this,” Lor’themar confessed sharply. Something heavy was beginning to spread in his chest. It was raw, unadulterated dread. His stomach twisted into a painful knot.

“You weren’t making much sense. You were feverish; burning up and hallucinating. There were just too many symptoms to pinpoint the true nature of the poison.”

“So it was poison?” Lor’themar demanded, biting back most of his intonation. The nurse did not deserve to take the brunt of his anger—she was just trying to help. The embers ignited once again, and he tried to smother them by breathing deeply.

“It appears to be so. We’ve found hints of Azerite within its composition,” the pandaren supplied carefully, taking a seat on the mattress on the other bed. Her shoulder slouched with the apparent weight of Lor’themar’s predicament.

“And?” Lor’themar urged impatiently. His tone did not go unnoticed by the silent woman as she shifted, her leather outfit squeaking that grated Lor’themar’s ears.

The pandaren nurse seemed unwilling to continue. She stalled her reply, instead choosing to stand up and shuffle uncomfortably under the weight of Lor’themar’s glare.

“I—I must inform the Council of your condition,” she bowed. “Excuse me.”

She hurried out of the room despite Lor’themar’s calls to stop her. As she took her exit, so did his anger disappear. He heaved a long sigh, and allowed himself a moment to fall apart. A pathetic groan escaped him.

“By the Sunwell. I need wine.”

A plain mug was pushed under his nose. Water sloshed in it, colourless, tasteless, odourless. Lor’themar jerked his head up in alarm, having completely forgotten about the woman—what did the nurse say was her name? Axe? Sword? It was some sort of weapon.

“Is this wine?” Lor’themar asked, even though he knew the answer would be no. Still, he felt like he should humour himself the chance that maybe, just maybe through some magical means they knew he preferred wine to anything else.

The woman shook her head once, even bothering to look apologetic that it was not Lor’themar’s favourite drink. Despite her expression, she insisted that he take it. Her eyes were wide, and her face was an open book—Lor’themar felt somewhat overwhelmed by the genuineness. She reminded him of a child despite her clearly adult appearance, but then again, most humans were rather young compared to him.

“I don’t want your water,” Lor’themar clicked his tongue, leaning away from the glass currently pushed under his nose. _Now, who acts like a child?_ He chided himself.

The glass followed his mouth wordlessly. Lor’themar stared at the woman with furrowed brows, hoping his ugly scowl would scare her away, yet all he accomplished was a challenging look from her. She let out a strange huff through her mouth, and pressed the glass against his lips defiantly.

She had some nerve—

Lor’themar didn’t know just how thirsty he was until he took the first careful sip, secretly hoping it was wine. Still, he would have gulped all of it in record time had the woman not pulled the glass away. Instead of putting it out of reach like Lor’themar would drown himself otherwise, the woman placed the water on the bedside table for later consumption, saving him the trouble that would have surely arose after making a fool out of himself by choking on _water_.

Mind hazy, as though he was beginning to slip into a coma, Lor’themar leaned against the pillow powerlessly, and watched the woman step away from the bed.

“Next time,” Lor’themar yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. He could barely lift his arm. Maybe now that he was finally awake for long enough, the poison spread further. He didn’t care. “Bring me wine.”

The woman grinned at him, and Lor’themar felt appropriate to echo it with a slight smile. Their little inside-joke. She turned away, no doubt to leave him alone to his thoughts, and Lor’themar felt a pang of fear at the thought of solitude—he did not want to be alone. Not in his last moments before he succumbed to the poison.

“Wait,” he called out quietly, stopping the woman in her tracks. She whipped her head around with a questioning look on her face. “What was your name, again?”

He felt somewhat chastised for having to ask it even though she had been introduced already, but Lor’themar couldn’t find it in himself to care. There was just too much to think about, especially now as he was fighting to stay awake. To stay alive.

The human’s eyes widened in what Lor’themar supposed was panic, and it confused him for a moment. Did he say something bad? Did she notice that he was dying?

The woman looked around the room fervently as though she could not allow herself to waste his time as she searched for something. Maybe a way to communicate—words had not yet left her mouth. Lor’themar watched with slight confusion as she clambered behind an unattended desk by the door, rummaged through the objects on it for a parchment and a pre-inked quill. From across the room, Lor’themar could see the clumsy way her hand grasped the quill as though she had never been taught how to write.

She held up the crumpled paper to him with a proud smile on her face.

Lor’themar could _not_ make out what the drawing entailed. The lines were shaky and disjointed. It was a stick with an oval shape on one of its end. Or, at least he thought it was an oval. Lor’themar tipped his head to this side, then to that side, focusing intently—

He furrowed his brows. “Hammer?” he asked incredulously. Her name was _Hammer_?

The smirk gracing the woman’s face disappeared instantly, and the corners of her mouth turned down as though she was ready to cry. Lor’themar wasn’t really good at guessing games, and her drawing was abysmal.

If not hammer, then what—ah.

“Thank you,” Lor’themar said then. “Mace.”

The human woman named Mace with a hammer-drawing left wordlessly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said weekly updates! but life happened and uhh... yeah. i was distracted. nonetheless, here is the next (very short, sorry) chapter!

Lor’themar did not die that day. However, he wasn’t sure who exactly he’d expected to turn up with answers he was seeking, but he still found himself surprised when Aethas Sunreaver blinked into the infirmary without even bothering to dress himself appropriately for the presence of someone with Lor’themar’s rank. He stood regally without his usual garb—he now sported fluffy robes and a loose pair of pants only. The state in which his hair stood indicated that he had just woken up.

“We’ve heard what happened,” spoke Aethas, breaking the silence. His steps were muffled as he walked closer to Lor’themar’s bed. He didn’t forget to keep his distance, though.

“Good,” Lor’themar replied immediately, “then you can enlighten me why I haven’t seen Halduron, or even Rommath.”

Aethas shuffled uncomfortably. “Dalaran is currently in a lockdown due to a malfunction. The Council of Six are investigating it, and saw it best that I be the one to try to explain the situation.”

Lor’themar waited patiently, crossing his arms before his chest. The heavy claws of his restless nap still gripped his muscles, but he was nearly fully awake. Perhaps there had been something in the water to ease him back into sleep, and he would have been thankful for it had it not been for the nightmarish images that haunted him.

A part of him still expected the Blightcaller to melt out of the shadows from under his bed and pierce his heart with that Light-forsaken blade whose purpose still eluded Lor’themar. Whatever Sylvanas planned with it, Lor’themar had a feeling that it would echo across the entirety of Azeroth.

“If I may first ask—what happened? After you returned from Nazjatar?”

Lor’themar sighed. Here it was. Talk, talk, talk—he was tired of talking. He was tired of_ not _fighting. He hadn’t realized until now, but when he was fighting for his life in The Eternal Palace against Azshara and her twisted minions, Lor’themar’s blood bubbled with the feeling of being alive. It reminded him of his glorious days as a simple ranger, and nothing more did he ever want.

“I crossed our _dear_ Warchief,” Lor’themar snickered. Though Aethas was part of the Tirisgarde, the young blood elf still considered himself a son of Silvermoon, still fighting under their banner. But during, and even after the campaign against the Legion, Dalaran, the Kirin Tor and the many order halls that had been reignited in face of the Third Invasion, were all a beacon of hope that continued work between the Horde and Alliance was _in fact_ possible.

Lor’themar didn’t need more reason. Talking of rebellion against a Warchief was not a new thing, after all.

“And now she wants my head. Preferably detached from my shoulders,” Lor’themar jested mirthlessly. “I stayed in Nazjatar until the end, and when I returned to Silvermoon, Sylvanas’ cronies were waiting for me.”

There was an ugly frown on Aethas’ dashing face, as though a scar was marring it across. Not unlike Lor’themar’s own scar, though his own dashing days were long past by now. Ever since taking up the mantle of Regent Lord of Silvermoon fifteen or so years ago, he felt like he’d grown a thousand years older.

“With some brand new concoction,” Lor’themar finished quickly, eager to get his own answers. Aethas listened intently, nodding here and there. He looked deep in thought, idling awkwardly by the feet of Lor’themar’s bed.

“It seems,” Aethas spoke, wistfully, “that Sylvanas had predicted your decision to work with the Alliance,” the mage concluded.

Lor’themar snorted. “She has at least three back-up plans in case one fails. It shows just how paranoid she has become. But enough talk of her—what of Silvermoon? Any news?”

Aethas shook his head. “As I mentioned, Dalaran has been on lockdown for a few days. No portals in or out, so information’s been scarce. The malfunction must have caused Rommath’s portal to… _slightly_ miss the target.”

“Well, I’m just glad it was not below,” Lor’themar added. Sure, Aethas was no Halduron, but with the mage being the highest ranking blood elf he could talk to, Lor’themar felt he should not be as hostile as he had been in the past. Times changed, and so did people, as Liadrin would say. “And what of my legs?”

Aethas shuffled, biting into his lower lip. Awkwardness returned to his posture, and Lor’themar wanted to order him to snap out of it and act like a proper Tirisgarde. “We’ve asked help from shamans, druids, priests and paladins, and monks who reside in Dalaran to take a look at you. None could make a difference.”

Lor’themar’s stomach twisted with dread. He suddenly wished Mace would turn up with her promised glass of wine right now, because to the Sunwell, Lor’themar was parched. He wanted to ask, so truthfully wanted to ask: _so then what?_ But he could not. Not to Aethas.

He can’t—he can’t lose his legs. Not now. Not now when he had to step up and be on the frontlines. Now more than ever, he would have to step on the battlefield in the coming wars. It was the silence before a storm, he knew, and he had to be ready before the first thunder struck. Quel’thalas needed him more than ever.

He could not… just lie in bed, waiting for others to fight in his stead.

“I… know,” said Aethas quietly, and Lor’themar realized that he had voiced his last worry. The mage glanced at him with something akin to understanding. “I will bring any news to you as soon as I get them, and I’m… I’m working on a solution, with many other people in Dalaran.”

_You need to be on your feet,_ echoed hauntingly within the four walls of the infirmary. Lor’themar could not go back to sleep anymore. He did not _want_ to go back to sleep. There, Sylvanas waited for him.

There, the tendrils of insanity from the depths of Nazjatar waited for him.

When Mace returned without a word, she was wearing a heavy robe as she ducked inside the infirmary with a nervous look over her shoulder as though she was not supposed to be there. It was the dead of the night, but Lor’themar was wide awake, the darkness chased away by the warm flickering of a lone candle and the purple glow of a gentle crystal on a table that soothed Lor’themar in a way he could not explain. Upon noticing his visitor, Lor’themar lifted his head from the pillow and quickly pushed himself up.

He opened his mouth to greet the woman, but she placed a quick finger before her lips, shushing him. His mouth hanged open for a moment before Lor’themar caught himself in the act, and settled against the headboard. Deep in his stomach, he naively hoped Mace would grant his wish—the pandaren nurse who had come bearing a tray of dinner had refused to bring a glass of wine, chastising her patient with a matronly glare.

Mace stalked next to Lor’themar’s bed, hunching all the way as though she was the worst ever thief in the process of stealing something from right under Lor’themar’s nose, and procured a non-descript bottle from the depths of her robe. Lor’themar swallowed, eyes transfixed as the woman uncorked the bottle and gently, carefully held it close to Lor’themar’s nose. As soon as the aroma wafted up, Lor’themar’s heart squeezed.

It was indeed wine.

He could not help but offer Mace a small smile which the woman reciprocated with a smirk of her own as she poured some of the dark red drink into Lor’themar’s empty glass. She offered it to him, but to his surprise, Lor’themar hesitated a moment before accepting it. He knew alcohol was not te solution to his ailment, but he needed something to soothe his nerves the crystal could not.

He wasn’t quite familiar with wines available in Dalaran, and the taste was not anything he’d ever had in Silvermoon, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t like it. Or maybe he was just that thirsty for wine. In any case, after the first sip, he forgot to even breathe as he drank, gulp after gulp, until the glass ran out of wine to offer. Lor’themar let out a loud huff, and then unceremoniously reached out for refill.

Mace shook her head and quickly recorked the bottle, hiding it away. She sent him a scowl and wiggled a finger. Oh the nerve!

Lor’themar let out a deep sigh and sat back, setting the empty glass on his lap. Absentmindedly he played on the edge of the glass with his fingers, tracing the line around and around as he mustered up enough dignity. For some inexplicable reason, he felt that he could trust Mace, even if she was just an Alliance goon sent to spy on him. He’d gotten quite good at reading people’s faces and guessing their motives from the first moment, and Lor’themar was sure that Mace’s actions were genuine. Maybe her childishness was all but an act, but—there was something in her wide eyes that no adult possessed.

It was innocence.

Did Lor’themar find it strange, even suspicious that she was _so_ willing to help him? Absolutely. But it wasn’t Aethas, or anyone else who had sleeping in the infirmary when Lor’themar woke up. It wasn’t Aethas who brought him wine in the middle of the night. Surely, it could have been a ruse for all he knew, but seeing as how Dalaran was in lockdown, Lor’themar needed to make some friends very quickly.

Aethas was a son of Silvermoon, yes, but he would never go against the Council of Six. It was time for Lor’themar to see if he would have more luck with Mace.

Lor’themar looked Mace dead in the eye with all the seriousness he could gather.

“Can you help me to the privy?”

Now, peeing was going to be a pain in the ass.

Another long day passed without any news from Silvermoon and solution to his predicament. A throng of healers visited him every hour to check him, try something new on his legs, only to shake their heads in dejection. Even those wearing the colourful tabards of their respective orders failed: mistweavers bended their jade fog inside his spine; priests and paladins wielded their holy Light around his ankles; shamans and druids commanded the restorative powers of nature and the elements by his knees—and nothing worked. With each failure, Lor’themar’s heart plummeted deeper until he could barely contain his disappointment.

It could not be that no one in Dalaran was able to help him!

What kind of monstrous concoction had Sylvanas damned him with?

“I’m sorry, Lord Theron,” Archmage Modera shook her head with calculated movements. Next to her, Aethas, now dressed properly, swung on the balls of his feet gingerly, hands clasped behind his back. He seemed to be in a good mood despite the situation in Dalaran, a sharp contrast to Lor’themar.

The Regent Lord of Silvermoon was furious.

“Until we find out what is wrong with the matrices and catch the saboteur, we cannot let anyone leave the city.”

“I need to be in Silvermoon!” Lor’themar hissed, gripping the edges of his mattress. He felt useless, powerless. A ranger without legs—pathetic.

But he was no ranger, not for a long time. Only misery was left.

“The Council’s decision is final,” said Modera, the authority in her voice challenging Lor’themar. “You may stay in Dalaran as our esteemed guest while a small team under the Tirisgarde’s leadership will continue to search for a cure. If _your_ Warchief plans to use this toxin in the future, we’d prefer to be prepared.”

Lor’themar bit his tongue before he opened his mouth. “I’m thankful for your help,” he said, “but you _do not_ understand—”

“No, Lord Theron,” Modera interrupted him, “we understand the current situation very clearly, as is the task of the Kirin Tor. We make sure Dalaran will remain neutral between the Alliance and Horde.”

“There will be no Horde or Alliance, _or Dalaran_ if we do not act!” Lor’themar gritted out, his fists on the mattress so tight his knuckles turned white. He could punch something right now. If only that damned Blightcaller was there, Lor’themar would not hesitate to throw himself on that pathetic excuse of a ranger, his lame legs be damned. He would claw that smug face off the man with his blunt nails if need be—

“Rest assured, Lord Theron, we will update you as soon as the lockdown is lifted,” Modera sighed diplomatically. And according to Aethas, she was one of the most likeable mages among the Six. “Until then, we will make sure you are as comfortable as possible.”

Sometimes Lor’themar loathed politics. He wanted to sneer at Modera’s receding back, but Aethas was still standing there, no doubt eyeing him from behind his helmet. When the Archmage was out of the door, Aethas shifted closer to gain Lor’themar’s attention.

Lor’themar hunched against the headboard.

“I’ve taken the liberty,” Aethas spoke up, “to commission the local blacksmith master to fashion you a special chair,” the mage said. “For time being.”

To Lor’themar’s surprise, Mace’s unmistakable back ducked inside the room as she nearly tripped in the threshold. For a moment she struggled with something, then she whipped her head around at the sound of stunned silence. If Lor’themar hadn’t been preoccupied with Modera’s words, or the _thing_ Mace was struggling with, he would have found the woman’s expression comical.

It was a chair, as Aethas had described, with two wheels on its sides instead of legs, covered with leather underneath and plush blankets on top; sleek armrests gilded into a stout backrest, which ended with two simple handles reaching behind. Below the wheels on the front was a shelf of sorts, and Lor’themar couldn’t figure out their purpose for the life of him until he was actually sitting in the chair—it was for his feet to be propped upon.

“Miss, uh,” Aethas said uncertainly, “Mace, here, volunteered to bring you wherever you want within Dalaran, if you would accept her services… Uh, she wasn’t quite clear on why exactly.”

Lor’themar nodded without thinking. Unlimited supplies of wine, at least.

One question remained: should he confide in her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw i totally forgot to mention in the first chapter that the only reason this fic exists is because... when i was fishing for the coins in the dalaran fountain for the achievements, i noticed that seemingly random characters have coins (even if it's copper) but quite a lot of important figures do not, for example, lor'themar doesn't have a coin either. weird, but kind of understandable seeing as how he has never been "important" up till bfa. 
> 
> anyhow... 
> 
> find me @ gyunikum on twitter / tumblr ! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I love Mace with all my heart and I will protect her from everything. 
> 
> P.S not to be confused with Ensign/Inquisitor Mace from Drustvar.


End file.
